“This one?” she asks, that same hollow tone.
“Fine.”
“Of course it is.” She returns to the changing area.
We continue this exercise in torture for another hour. Giuliana tries on dress after dress—sleek columns that show her figure, vintage-inspired creations with long sleeves and high necks, modern designs with illusion panels and architectural shapes. Each one is more stunning than the last, and each time she emerges, her expression grows more distant.
The boutique staff coos over her. The seamstress calls her “a dream to fit” and “absolutely stunning.” Madame Rousseau’s assistant mentions how lucky I am, how beautiful the wedding photos will be, how this is the kind of love story people dream about.
All lies. All theater. All designed to prop up the fiction that this is anything other than what it really is—revenge wrapped in white silk and empty promises.
Finally, Giuliana emerges wearing the first dress again. The ball gown with the tulle and the beading. She stands on the platform in front of the three-way mirror, studying herself with an expression that makes me feel uncomfortable.
“I think this is the one,” she says quietly.
Madame Rousseau practically squeals with delight. “Oh, it’s perfect! Absolutely perfect! Your groom must be?—”
“Excuse me a moment,” I interrupt, already standing and heading for the door. “I need to take a call.”
I don’t wait for a response before pushing out into the boutique’s main showroom and then outside to the street. The late October air is cool enough to clear my head slightly, but not enough to erase the image of Giuliana in that dress, beautiful and broken and mine in all the worst ways.
My phone is already in my hand, Danny’s number pulled up, but I don’t press call. What the fuck am I supposed to say? That I’m losing my grip on this revenge plan? That watching Giuliana try on wedding dresses is somehow harder than ordering a man’s execution? That I’m starting to see my mother’s hollow eyes in her face and it’s making me question everything?
No. I can handle this. I just need to maintain distance, remember why I’m doing this, honor Marco’s memory by following through on the plan we both would have wanted.
Except Marco never would have wanted this. He would have been horrified by what I’m doing to an innocent woman. He would have reminded me that justice requires proportionality, that destroying the wrong target for someone else’s crimes isn’t justice at all—it’s just cruelty disguised as revenge.
The boutique door opens behind me. I turn, expecting Madame Rousseau or her assistant, and instead find Giuliana standing there in her regular clothes. That black dress, severe hair, and exhausted eyes.
“I picked the dress,” she says flatly. “They took my measurements for alterations.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“They want me to come back for fittings. Three more appointments before the wedding.” She wraps her arms around herself against the cool air. “Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes.” It’s all I can say right about now.
“Good.” She looks away, staring at the traffic moving past us on Michigan Avenue. “Madame Rousseau mentioned that my mother would be so proud to see me as a bride.”
Fuck.
“Giuliana—”
“She died when I was nineteen,” she continues, her voice distant. “Cancer—but wait, you already knew that, didn’t you?” She gives me a sharp, assessing look. “I’m sure you did an extensive background check on me, right?”
I don’t even bother confirming it.
Her shoulders slump. “Cancer took her apart piece by piece over two years until there was almost nothing left. But even at the end, even when the pain was unbearable and the drugs barely worked, she was stillher. Still the woman who taught me to be strong, to stand up for what’s right, to never let anyone break me.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I watch her struggle to maintain composure.
“She would hate this,” Giuliana says quietly, still not looking at me and twisting her hands. “She would hate what you’re doing to me. She would hate that I’m standing here in a weddingdress pretending this is something it’s not. And she would be so disappointed that I’ve let you turn me into?—”
She stops, pressing her hand to her mouth as her breath hitches audibly.
I need to walk away and let her compose herself without my presence making it worse. But my feet won’t move, and I’m trapped watching her fall apart on a Chicago sidewalk while pedestrians flow around us like we’re invisible.
“She would be disappointed that I’ve become someone who doesn’t fight back anymore,” Giuliana finishes in a whisper. “Someone who just…accepts this because fighting is too exhausting and there’s no point anyway.”
